Barker, Nellie, and Todd
by Alandree
Summary: A prelude of sorts. What goes on for those fifteen years. From both Mr. Todd's perspective and Mrs. Lovett's. Rated M for future disturbing content.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Oh goodness, this is my first fanfic ever to be submitted on . I've written a smattering of them in the past, though none I've ever been confident enough in to submit here. In fact, I'm quite nervous for this to be here as well, but it's something I've been debating on doing ever since I got started with it, and am happy to say that I've finally worked up the nerve. Don't be too hard on me. :) My interpretation of Mr. Todd deviates from the canon happenings somewhat, but you'll find out about that when it comes, I suppose.  
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* * *

**:PROLOGUE:  
**Barker, Hope & Todd

* * *

_Botany Bay, New South Wales, 1839_

Thunder rumbled gutturally in the background. The cliff above the ocean was a foreign cut-off; and end at last. Barker stood a hundred paces from its edge. The landscape was a monotone grey, with bursts of desaturated blue from sloshing water and lightning eruptions above. Windy too. Each raindrop shot like a faerie cannon onto his skin; pummelling him with minuscule fists.

The dried blood on his face was beginning to run, once crusted and dark, now loose and free to trail through his unruly hair, and down his neck, soaking him as if the rain were fringed in dull carmine. He tilted his head back, and let the cannons fire down, hitting with snapping force. Punishment; Retribution for this streak of…but he dared not say it, dared not think it.

But it would all wash away soon. Yes, soon he would be far and away, back to his dear wife. This moment…he'd been dreaming of it for fourteen years. It was what kept him alive, really.

_Was_ he still alive?

Barker had often contemplated the difference between being alive and being dead. The two seemed so easily interchangeable. He was dead…but still breathing, still seeing. And it was agony.

It was now or never, he concluded. Either he'd stay here; on the Island of the Damned, an oasis of displaced logic; where there were two paths for a man to travel: The road of death; twisted, foggy, saintly in its relief, yet frightening and silencing for a mind, or the road of Madness: convoluted, scattered, yet also relieving, where a man lets go of what makes him what he is, a human, to accept and fend for himself like an animal. _Man devouring man._

Or he could fly away. He could see Lucy and Johanna in a little white boat, gazing up at him fondly…pale specks on an angry sea. Lucy._ Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. _Yellow hair billowing. Curdling, in the tumultuous wind. Her face stressed and squinting in the rain. And infant Johanna. Fat cheeks and dulcet blue eyes hidden from view, as she recoiled against her mother's chest from the frightening weather.

It was over. His stride began quickly, racing through the penetrable water bars, bare echoes of the metal ones he'd had imprinted on his eyes all these years. He slowed in eventuality, staggering down to a trudge, at last able to peer over and see the direct view below. There were rocks, damnation, but he'd do it anyway. If he died, then all that could leave him now were his senses. Pain was unthinkable and impossible.

Falling; at such a length, he'd never felt before. Barker launched himself with such misery encapsulated, that he achieved grace.

_Trumpets are sounding,__  
War steeds are bounding.__  
Stand to your arms and march on good order__  
England shall many a day,Tell of the bloody fray,  
When the blue bonnets came over the border_

Hitting sea. Soul upon soul. It burned his face, a slap from Poseidon, but once all rigidity and discomfort spread away, at once upon the water's contact, he found, in himself, escape. This murky grey hell, bubbling and careening so quickly past: It was salvation. The water blubbering and slopping in his ears, the rain's cruel pelts drowned quite literally into silence, it was what he'd been dreaming of all this time.

Soon Lucy will throw a line. Her boat, _silken-sailed_, will soothe the savage storm, and he will float home.

"Hope?" Said the Captain gruffly, in response to a skinny boy who'd clambered his way up to the hull, with boots too large.

"Captain! Sir, I believe—I believe I saw a man!" His eyes were wide, and he wore an unusual embroidered coat, most likely obtained at a discounted price from the Indian market.

"Well I should _hope_ so. Err…Hope." The Captain paused at this, though he didn't laugh_._ "Wouldn't want my men to hide away from their duties." At this he chortled, belly jiggling, an ode to St. Nicholas.

"No, no, sir! A man! He's…I saw him!" Mr. Hope was frantic. "The cliffs there! The cliffs! He's fallen off." He gestured emphatically towards the edge of land, storm whipping his drab hair, plastering his thin face.

The Captain shuffled to view, clasping his hat in the wind and squinting at the indicated land. "Fallen, you say?"

"Sir! I'll-I'll cast a line. With your permission, Sir!" But he'd already bounded back down the steps and began unravelling the heavy rope.

The Captain, being inherently passive, even for a man of the sea, did nothing to either encourage or discourage the boy's course. Several other men came to his aid however, and a "Man overboard!" was hollered, though drowned considerably in the howling wind.

Anthony was at the head of the fray, grasping the line and hurling it over with all his might. He saw a dark head momentarily re-surface, but plunged down again just as quickly.

He froze mid-motion. Perhaps he was dead. It was too late. But it could _not_ be. They'd arrived just in time. If only he'd see! The unfortunate man! His mind was a-race.

The other men shouted down, but for what seemed like an age, there was no responding action from below.

He could barely see, but it was there. Blurred and white, a sudden flash of light slammed through the surface down to him: the rope of his saviour. He reached arms out, in suspended animation, with all his strength against the water's flow, and felt a prickling substance. His grip was iron, and he tugged.

The response was immediate. He was pulled up with surprising strength and speed. Lucy's ethereal ways would remain, as always, a great mystery. But upon breaking out, and coughing up salty liquid, he saw the damp walls of a great vessel, rather than a modest white dingy. Craning his neck, hair weighing him down to aid the process, Barker witnessed not wife and child, but boys and men. Whitewashed faces that pulled him to Heaven with determined arms.

At last! Fortune was on their side! Mr. Hope grabbed eagerly the rope, and did his very best to heave and ho with the rest of them. The sea-felled man was clouded by dark hair and beard, and he clung to the rope with what Anthony assumed was relief.

Once he reached the top, he was grabbed round the middle and set on the floor in a soaking mess. Captain Morgan trundled down to greet the castaway, who lay half-naked and sickly, coughing up blood and water. He bent knee and examined the fellow. "Good work, lads. Let's hope the poor chap's not a prisoner. Lest we be tempted to throw him back in again." He spoke as if Barker was not even present.

Mr. Hope ran down below deck to retrieve blankets. On the way, he shoved his scantly dispersed treasures off his bunk to make room, and lit a lamp, before hurrying up again.

Barker felt number than possible. He heard voices, but they seemed as distant and muffled as if he were still underwater. Suddenly dryness enveloped him, and he was lifted off his feet by the same plethora of strong arms, led down a dark mouth, and into a room with rocking, soothing candlelight.

"Sir? You must be hungry." Said a young voice, chipper, yet soft.

Baker could barely turn his head, he shook so. He could hear, however, the soft clank of utensil and plate, and sure enough, a boy set a tray of hastily assembled food and drink at the foot of his bunk. "Thirsty too." The boy chuckled, though tone was not raised.

Many days passed. Barker spent most of his time alone below deck, bed-ridden, limbs unmoving. He didn't sleep much, nor did he speak, but he ate and drank. Leaving meat untouched, however. The same boy brought him his meals again and again, saying less and less with each visit.

Anthony wasn't getting a name out of him, evidently. Nor was he getting much else at all. But he felt responsible for his well-being, and as such, saw it as his duty to tend to him. The other sailors, including the captain, let him have his way, taking extra portions at mealtime, because, thought Anthony, he was a kind boy, and was doing good.

The sailors, however, felt no inclination to give any help themselves. They were simple, gruff and uneducated, differing immensely from Mr. Hope. The lad was a fool, they said, to join them in their voyages. But whenever asked, Anthony would always defend his position with a simple love for the sea. A love for travel.

Perhaps he'd been disowned, or orphaned. That was the most they could come up with, however plausible. What would an educated youth want with the trying efforts of a nautical occupation? He was young, too. Usually them tykes weren't forced to work at such a job until they were much older. He was, what, fifteen? Give or take.

It was on the last week of the month, and the second-last day before they reached Peru, that the unfortunate man below deck began speaking. Much to Anthony's surprise. He was beginning to think that the poor soul was dumbed, or perhaps shocked into dumbness due to fright. It was no secret what sort of terror went on in the colonies at Botany Bay, so it was most likely the latter. The ghastly white streak in his hair could not be forgotten either.

"Good-morning, Sir!" Said Mr. Hope, who had just awakened, himself, from a spare bunk in the corner. He sat up in his union suit, and watched Barker for a moment. Barker looked as if he'd been awake for hours, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together with propped elbows on knees, head bent.

"Sir, if you cannot say your name, could you at least write it down? Can you write, sir?" That was an idea. At once, the boy jumped up, sheet billowing, to scramble in his satchel for parchment.

"…Sweeney Todd."

Anthony stopped, and took a moment to let the husky voice sink in. "…S-Sweeney Todd, sir?" He stood up, but Mr. Todd would not look at him. "So…so you _can_ speak, then?" But he felt slightly timid. "Well. Mr. Todd. I—"

"Where are we headed, Anthony?" 'Mr. Todd' finally spared the boy a glance, revealing a Cheapside accent.

"Peru, Mr. Todd."

"Peru…"

"Yes, but don't worry." He gained confidence, and smiled. "By next year we'll be returned to England."

Mr. Hope was kind enough not to question Mr. Todd's history. Indeed, he didn't ask him at all about why he'd been near the colony that fateful night. Mr. Todd was a stoic man, and, Anthony surmised, far too distressed to handle pestering.

Barker was getting used to being called Todd. The name was like a badge, and rightfully won. Charles Todd would forever remain neutral in his memory, but he could not forget their connection, particularly concerning their escape, and think of him..._almost_ fondly.

Sweeney Bonnet was another matter entirely. He'd barely known him, but they'd shared a connection too, and he sympathized with him and his untimely death. This partial anonymity was partly why he chose it for his new Christian name. Bonnet had never divulged his history to the rest of his inmates, nor had he spoken much at all. In a way, Barker felt more comfortable as Sweeney Todd than he'd ever felt as Benjamin Barker. Perhaps it was all for the wrong reasons, but his moral compass had not been in tact since…perhaps since his escape.

_The English Channel, 1840_

He stood now, in front of a misted looking-glass, on the day of _The Bountiful_'s venture from Plymouth to London. He'd not dared look at himself for all these months, fearing what he might see. Mirrors did not exist in this size back in the colony. He was forced to piece together his appearance through reflective substitutes. Water or metal. But now there he was. Much like a wild beast, or an unruly urchin of the streets. Unshaven and…what _was_ that in his hair?

There was a straight razor, among other toiletries, wrapped in cloth on a small table in the latrine. Mr. Todd cherished the touch of cool metal on his calloused fingers, and spent God knows how many hours locked up and fiddling with it. Nothing could compare to the ones back home, but it seemed to centre his balance somewhat. Possibly his well being too. He emerged an hour later, clean-shaven and washed for the first time in many, many years. The captain signalled their arrival, and Mr. Hope called down to him.

Mr. Todd found his way on deck, dressed in spared clothing handed from one man or another, the wind blowing on his face. London loomed, in ghostly silence, and in ghostly black, with pinpricks of light here and there. He wanted to feel enthused, feel at home at last.

But all he could conjure was a lump in his throat, and a slow knit of the brow.

"Ah, I cannot believe that _this_ is the place I've been the most anxious to see." Said Anthony cheerfully. "I would have said differently a few months ago." He chuckled.

Mr. Todd said nothing, only hit with a blast of something resembling nausea. And it wasn't from the rocking boat.

"It's as if...this is the first moment of my life." The young sailor went on, breathing in the chill night air, and sighing, "Where Machu Picchu was so ancient, London is so modern and alive. Familiar. I feel at home again."

No, thought Todd, this had to be the _last_ moment. No in-betweens now. The last moment of a tortured existence. Salvation was near. Lucy was near. But even so, he felt no tremor of joy in his heart. No angelic chorus beating through his veins, as what he'd experienced in all his dreams, through all these years. No, there was something else that beat there now. Where his heart used to be.

Or…_was_ it the first moment?

Firsts and lasts meant nothing now. It was only the future, the present, and the past. The future was so darkly hesitant to show the first moment of Sweeney Todd. So gleefully, however, did the past embrace the last moment of Benjamin Barker.


	2. Chapter I

_A/N: Thanks to Sythar and BeBopALula for the encouraging reviews! :) I'm not sure if I like this chapter or not...x.x But this and chapter two will be coming quite quickly, as I've had the two of them, including the prologue, written for several months now.  
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* * *

**:CHAPTER I:  
**The Implication of a Mysterious Incarceration

* * *

_Fleet Street, London, 1823_

"Mr. Barker! What a delight to see you 'ome so early!" Chirped the young woman behind the counter. Mrs. Lovett. She was dusty with flour, with a spread of it across her cheek, as she bustled from one end to the other as Mr. Barker emerged from the cold outside. He'd gone with Lucy to the neighbours, the McAndrews, who'd been gracious enough to invite them over for tea.

Mrs. Lovett had been smitten with him from the start. From the moment he and his wife had stepped through the door three months ago. Her husband, Albert, was less taken with him, Mr. Barker especially, but obliged to their rooming above. They could use the money, after all, he'd said. His wife Nellie was delighted, and it showed on her face every time. But she would never be so bold as to show her affections. Not around her husband, at least.

It was times like these, when both of their spouses were away, that she allowed herself to let go of all pretence.

"Where is…_Mrs_. Barker?" She wiped her hands on her apron, and found it difficult to breathe in his presence.

Benjamin shrugged off his overcoat, and proceeded towards the stairs, hair slightly tussled from the wind and snow. "With Mrs. McAndrew. I'm afraid I'm not much for tea parties."

"Oh won't you--" Began Mrs. Lovett, slipping out from behind the counter to his side. But she couldn't find the words.

"…Pardon me?"

"I…you'll be closin' up shop then, will ya?" She folded her arms across her chest casually, taking care not to look into his eyes for too long.

"Well…well yes, I suppose so. Was there something you needed?" On the whole, Benjamin was not the most intuitive fellow. Indeed, he saw no reason or rhyme behind Mrs. Lovett's increasingly open attitude. She was like that with everyone, surely.

"Oh, no, no. Nothin' at all…I jus', I…feel free to…" But there was no way to say it without sounding inappropriate. _Feel free to join me in the parlour for tea, Mr. Barker_. But he'd just had tea with the McAndrews. _Feel free to sit with me in the kitchen, Mr. Barker_. _Feel free to take me in your arms, Mr. Barker_._ Feel free to abandon your wife for me, Mr. Barker_. _Albert need not ever know_. "If ya get lonely up there, you'll come an' we'll chat a bit, hmm?" Well there was no use taking it back now.

"…I'll do that, Mrs. Lovett. Thank you." His smile was sheepish, and he stepped around her awkwardly to climb the stairs.

Albert wouldn't be home for another hour.

Mr. Lovett was a kindly man and a kindly husband, they said. That was the most scrutable description. His neighbours would find merriment in his face, and a spring in their steps after each visit to the butchery and adjacent meat pie emporium. This was not only due to the favourable prices of said pies and veal, but the jolly dispositions of the proprietors. Mrs. Lovett was chatty and flirtatious, and would almost always let patrons slip out with an extra pie for free. Mr. Lovett went through quite a show of examining each slab of meat he sold before the customer, indicating the best way for it to be cut, cooked, and served. He and his wife were rarely seen together during the day, business being a top priority. The neighbours of the Lovetts, Mr. and Mrs. McAndrew, found the couple wholesome and genial, often inviting them, along with the young couple who boarded above, the Barkers, for tea and croquet on Thursdays.

Those who knew Mrs. Lovett well however, and not many did, knew better than to assume. Mrs. McAndrew had been aware of the beatings for several years now, though Mrs. Lovett would never be caught in admittance. She would now and then appear with dark spots on her cheeks and arms, only to be covered up with flour once she began working. On these days, she refrained from going to the McAndrews' parties. The only two people who seemed to know of her reasons for certain were Mrs. Ethel McAndrew and Mr. Benjamin Barker. Neither of whom knew that the other knew. Mr. Barker was a quiet fellow, to say the least, and Mrs. Ethel McAndrew was not particularly inclined to talk with him. Nellie Lovett would talk to anyone, Ethel concluded, and therefore it was no surprise that she had become quite chummy with Lucy Barker's husband.

Mr. Barker was somewhat aloof. He would rarely engage in conversation, finding more pleasure in staying in the background, while his wife mingled, and if one were to watch carefully, one would notice his eye always remained upon her. Mrs. Lovett happened to notice. But what could one do with such a fair thing? Lucy was younger, blonder, and apparently a lot more appealing than she was. She did try though. She talked to Benjamin when no one else would, finding even a stumbling reply from him more appealing than anything else in the world. For this, it seemed Mr. Barker _was_ appreciative. He felt freer to discuss things with Nellie, as it seemed she always understood.

She wouldn't have gone so far as to say she was in love. If she did, there would be a risk of it being a crime. Or at least an abhorrent deviation. She liked Benjamin, liked him more than anyone else she knew. (Not to mention he was better looking than anyone else she knew, but that was beside the point.) The point was, she was a good wife, and she couldn't possibly be doing any harm in confiding in him, rather than, say, her _own_ husband.

Not that she ever had a _chance_ to confide in Albert Lovett. When he wasn't working, he was drunk, and when he wasn't drunk, he was lascivious, or sometimes a horrible combination of both. She trooped on however. He was her dearest and her only, after all. He'd been decent enough before they'd married. He offered her a comfortable life, and his disposition was impenetrable upon their meeting. Nellie's mother, Eleanor Kingsley Corrigan, said he was the best thing to have happened to her daughter. Oh, and how humble was this Albert Lovett, how sincere, how genteel. Mrs. Kingsley Corrigan was the queen of trump-ups. Her daughter was left between a rock and a hard place however, either she married this homely meat-seller, who assured her of a good home, and a successful business and subsequent income, or she be carted off to Liverpool to tend to her sick aunt Nettie and live as a matron or a nun or something equally horrid upon Nettie's immanent demise. And being a chastised crone was far from appealing to a young seventeen-year-old. So she married Lovett. And became Lovett. Not Corrigan Lovett. Albert would have none of that.

They'd been married for two and a half years before the Barkers arrived. However successful their business had appeared to be, in reality, due to the cheapness of the meat, not to mention the lack of prowess from the baker, finances had gone under, and their only conceivable option was to rent out the unused space upstairs. They didn't have children, however many times they'd tried, so the rooms above were virtually useless. It had been Nellie's idea to rent them out, of coarse. She was the resourceful one in this relationship. Albert rarely even spoke when not at work, and was, lesser still, compassionate towards his wife when they were alone together. But Nellie endured, reminding herself over and over that this was the only way. She'd stay in London at whatever cost. Things weren't so bad, really. Plenty of people didn't love their husbands. Plenty of wives were knocked about when said husband cradled the bottle. Nothing unusual. Her parents were proud of her, at least, for once in her life. She'd made the right choice in their eyes. And someday she would have a child. Someday. Perhaps she should just try harder. Refuse Albert less. There would be fewer beatings that way. And with a child, she could forget about everything, and concentrate on it, love it.

She had such love to give. Perhaps that was what drew her to this man, Mr. Barker. He adored his family, and with good reason. They were lovely in all and beyond all respects, Nellie thought, but there was something about him in particular that made her feel like she could forget all about her sorry little life, forget about keeping people happy with false feelings, and just…be.

"Bugger…" She breathed, after dropping her new china plate, smashed cleanly in half, save a few jagged bits, on the floor before her. She'd just bought that from St. Dunstan's today. And it was expensive, too._ So much for a refined Christmas dinner…_

She'd been startled when she'd heard footsteps from down the hall. Now who would be coming into the kitchen at this hour? She'd thought she'd been sure Albert was asleep in their room before coming down here to prepare things for tomorrow. It was about half-past twelve in the morning.

Oh God, it _must_ be Albert. She just knew it. He wanted her to come to bed. And she would have no choice but to do it, lest she acquire a fresh bruise for tomorrow morning. _Oh, God…_

She held her breath, and stood straighter, clutching her hands into fists before the figure emerged in the doorway.

It was not Albert Lovett however. It was Mr. Barker.

"Mr. B…you…gave me a fright!" Nellie exhaled appreciatively, clutching a hand to her chest, feeling rather embarrassed at his witnessing her clumsiness. She was eternally grateful however. She would rather Mr. Barker see her drop a hundred plates than spend even an hour alone with Albert.

Mr. Barker was silent for a moment, staring down at the broken plate, frowning slightly.

Mrs. Lovett bent down to pick up the pieces, sighing heavily and hoping he wasn't laughing at her with those eyes of his.

"My…apologies, Mrs. Lovett." He intoned at length, bending down to take the pieces from her. "I just…was curious."

She blushed visibly as he drew near. Even if it meant absolutely nothing at all to him, she didn't care. "What brings ya down 'ere so late, Mmm?" Her voice was soft, softer than she'd intended, perhaps, and she eyed him tentatively.

He remained knelt for a moment, piling the two large pieces atop one another, and then sprinkling the smaller bits on top with his other hand. "I…suppose I lost track of time. I'd thought you and Mr. Lovett had gone to bed for the night."

Was it just her imagination, or was he blushing too? "Oh, 'e's out like a light, I'm sure." She replied, not making a move, awaiting his next one. Awaiting his next vowel, his next consonant, his next breath, even.

He said nothing however, merely nodded rather hastily before clearing his throat.

She ached to know what he had to be embarrassed about. Was it not _she_ who dropped things and stumbled about in the face of his company? "Somethin's on your mind, Mr. B. Don' be beatin' round the bush wi' me." At that she gave a little smile.

Again, he said nothing, shaking his head this time, though he wasn't very convincing, and she knew that frown anywhere.

"Somethin' about…Lucy? The baby? Wha's on ya mind, dear?"

His face was much like a living canvas. His eyes told endless stories, one unfolding right after another. Rather romantic sort of thinking, really, but she rarely had a chance to admire anything, that when the time came, she'd do it with gusto. At the moment, he seemed lost in thought, and she ached to climb inside that head of his. Tread lightly between each current, and marvel. Encased with marble halls and golden gilt on all sides, she imagined. Her face moved inexplicably closer to his without her even knowing.

But he broke her trance, as he stood, the air from his abruptness whooshing up and throwing her back slightly. "Nothing. Please, don't trouble yourself over me, Mrs. Lovett." And with that he placed the broken china carefully on the wooden counter before exiting. Though not before throwing a rushed "Good night" her way.

The day Mr. Barker was arrested was rather like a trip to an alternate reality. The world had turned upside down. The very notion of his ever committing a crime was atrocious to begin with, no less the actuality of it. _But the law don't lie, do it?_ That's what Ethel McAndrew had said to her husband after the whole affair. She'd been the first to hear the news.

"Nellie!" She huffed, sweeping through the door with the tintinnabulation of the bell. "I've jus' seen the Barkers…"

Mrs. Lovett's attention was caught, and she rose from her seat in the parlour hastily, "Ethel…dear, whot's the matter?"

She took a moment to catch her breath, whilst being led to sink into the settee, wrinkling the knitted spread of drab blue and grey draped across it. "I've…jus' 'eard from the courthouse…Mr. Barker's been taken in for ques…huhh…questioning…"

Mrs. Lovett sank into her chaise lounge opposite, hands twisting in her lap. "…Wh…why?"

There was a silence, in which Mrs. McAndrew only supplied a frank shake of the head. She had no idea.

They found out from Lucy soon enough.

A rather severe-looking gentleman, who knocked on the door with a little clatter hours later, escorted Mrs. Barker home. Mr. Lovett sat in his corner of the parlour, pawing through a case of cigars. His wife was called down moments later.

"Ah, Mrs… Lovett, I presume?" Said the gentleman, with a permanent glare and a long nose.

"Tha's me, sir." Her eyes drifted from him to the young woman. "Lucy!" she gaped aghast, "Where've you been, love?" and she actually _was_ concerned this time.

Mrs. Barker looked rather petrified.

"Excuse me Madam, I am Judge Horace Turpin," He cut in.

"...Judge? An' what business does a Judge 'ave walkin' other people's wives 'ome?" A less than delicate reply, truly. She noticed another man behind the Judge, who eyed her back with beady eyes.

"I wished to see to it that Mrs. Barker…" His eyes drifted down to the young Aryan woman adjacent, "…was brought home safely."

Mrs. Lovett said nothing, hands at her hips, disapproving.

"…I was told she resides above your shop. Correct?"

Still she said nothing, eyeing Lucy again, who took a few steps inside eventually, hands wrung.

Giving a disgruntled sigh, Mrs. Lovett placed a hand on Lucy's back and led her towards the parlour. Then returned shortly to the Judge. "Where is Benjamin…?"

"…Mr. Barker has been taken into custody. It was with uncanny fortune that I, myself, and the Beadle Bamford," he gestured to the other man, "Caught him in the act this very afternoon."

"The…act?" She did not sound convinced. Though within her began a tirade of nervousness.

Judge Turpin surveyed her coolly, "Of such acts, I am not at liberty to discuss…with a _lady_." The accent on 'lady' was sarcastically punctuated. "If you'll excuse me." And with that he was gone.

Lucy Barker fumbled with a lace handkerchief, dabbing her eyes. Though she seemed obviously distressed, Mrs. Lovett was inclined to label her disposition as…shocked for the sake of the event, rather than the potential jeopardy of her husband. But who knows.

"…What did 'e do, Lucy?" Asked Mrs. McAndrew, who had rejoined them an hour later, the three women congregated in the parlour, fire ablaze.

Albert Lovett had retreated down to the bake house. His wife barely took note, as she normally would, since that was the place he preferred to go to drink.

Lucy shook her head rapidly, "I don't know. The bobbies dragged him out of the courtyard, and the Judge…Judge informed me of some…some charge they'd been able to extract from his records."

Mrs. Lovett frowned, her back straight as a board, "He told me he'd caught Mr. B in the act."

Lucy sniffed. "Well, he told me the details were difficult t-to…to…for a woman to hear…" At that came more tears.

Ethel McAndrew patted Lucy on the shoulder. "There, there, love. It's prob'ly just a mix-up. Poor Mr. Barker. 'e'll get outta there quick enough."

Mrs. Lovett was not convinced. Mrs. Barker was perhaps mentally incapable of being convinced. Mrs. McAndrew was as convinced as one could be politely with the current company.


	3. Chapter II

_A/N: Augh, and now I'm thinking that it's going to be this tangential for the remainder of the story. A bit like thoughts, really, or memories. Not always in order. That's my excuse anyway. x.x_**

* * *

:CHAPTER II:  
**Metal & Gavel

* * *

He wished he could feel her, staring out the bars of the carriage. The pulled cage. He'd never thought, never even questioned whether or not she could feel him…if their minds were truly connected in the way that he had always envisioned. The road became jagged as they went on, the chains at each man's wrists clashed together. They'd been riding for hours now, and he wondered if a day had not passed already. God only knew if the sun would ever shine again, to indicate the severance of night to day. London was far gone by now, he assumed, from what limited view he had of the countryside. They were travelling some obscure path. To a ship which would take them away to that far distant place at the end of the world.

Barker knew only that it was vast and mainly uncharted, where Europeans stuck their convicts, hiding them away from the world, like trash, in a dusty attic, or a long forgotten waste receptacle.

Sleep would not come. Try as he might, Barker could concentrate only on the rumbling of wheels, the clomping of hooves, and the ever-present shucking of chains. _Shuck, shuck, shuck_. Now and again he would here a mumble or two, a whisper. But nothing from which words could be discerned. Perhaps the whole world would be impossible to translate now. Perhaps, from now on, human speech would be unrecognizable. That might save him from a bit of pain.

Perhaps he'd never speak again.

The day this had all happened was queer. He found himself forgetting details already, however desperately he wanted to remember. There had been two angels' faces, pain, a repugnant pair of people descending on them, a whirl of tugs, and, finally, metal bars screeching to net his vision. From garden and courtyard to holding cell and officer, burly policemen on a fine and charming afternoon. Juxtaposing them was torturous.

Waiting in that cell was rather like waiting for death, but a death that was rather impossible to manifest, except perhaps by anticipation, by fear, by abashment. Could one die of nerves? Of ignorance? There was never a clear explanation. Rather like his ears would tune out, only to open up again to hear the last part of the explaining sentence.

"I've done nothing!" He'd yelled through the small slat to the lawmen, panting and clutching his bludgeoned back. They'd hurled him into a carriage and trundled off faster than he would have thought possible. He'd not even been read any of his rights.

The sun poked through at last. The prisoners were greeted with bright and vertical pillars of light, illuminating strips of skin and folds of mussed fabric sprawled against the back and front walls. They'd not been given prison garb, but they all assumed that would come once they'd gotten on the boat. Benjamin began wishing for it, in all his desperation and claustrophobia: to get out of this cramped place and feel a sea breeze. If only it would not lead further to their final destination; the final resting place. He wasn't quite claustrophobic…but he did not enjoy this close proximity between sweaty, convicted men. Some looked as resolutely desolate as he, while others were mere boys, gobsmacked and wild-eyed, frozen in the same position as when they'd been handed a verdict in court. _Guilty_.

Were they all dealt the same wronged blow? Were they all innocent, just like him? Or was he some sort of special case? Perhaps none of their wives could compete. Not with Lucy. Lucy was too good. Even for him, Barker. She was too good, too pure, and too beautiful. Beautiful. Perhaps judges only sought the best in innocent, young, married women.

It was a shock to everyone, naturally. He was the very last person anyone would ever have expected to be carted off like that. The neighbours reckoned it must be some petty crime, he'd evaded taxes, or perhaps merely been incarcerated by mistake. A mix-up, as McAndrew's wife had said. But who could mistake such a well-spoken and introverted young man as any sort of criminal?

"Looks c'n be deceivin', tha's whot I wan'ed 'a tell 'er." Said Mrs. McAndrew to her husband on the evening she'd heard the news. "But Mrs. Lovett, ya know 'ow she's like about Benjamin…"

Mr. McAndrew did not know, actually, but letting his wife get this all off her chest was the easiest thing to do, the thing that would cause less pain. For she was. A pain, that is.

"I mean…'oo 'sa say they ain' been knockin' boots eva since 'e an' tha' flighty wife 'o 'is moved up there, ay Norry?"

Norbert McAndrew was, quite frankly, more interested in the fact that there'd been such an abrupt bringing in. From what he could discern from his wife's retelling, Mr. Barker had been apprehended in front of his own wife and child, with no formal announcement of his misdeeds, nor a proper procedure of arrest, just a whack on the back and a dragging off without a word. And that Judge Turpin had the audacity to walk Mr. Barker's own wife home after the ordeal. _Weren't quite right_, he thought.

He'd been a bit anti-social, this Benjamin Barker, true…but that was no cause for arrest, was it? He seemed to be quite enraptured with his wife and daughter, and would rarely talk to anyone besides he, Norbert, Mrs. McAndrew, and Barker's landlady, Mrs. Lovett. Though perhaps criminals were like that. Secretive and mild-mannered to company, then deceitful and conniving behind closed doors.

The inhabitants of Fleet Street could only venture a guess.

A second "I've done nothing!" before the holding cell was wrenched closed, and the red-nosed bobby disappeared from view. Benjamin felt the cold rush in, seeping through the small slatted window and onto his flushed skin. It became, in time, so unbearably quiet; he heard only the beat of his own heart and the raggedness of his own breath. There wasn't even a candle to illuminate what he could only assume was a bare cell, with naught but the advancing moonlight for the reassurance of solidity. The darkness fizzled before his eyes, and he was unsure of whether to panic or lie down and assume a foetal position until the entire world disappeared. Doing both was quite possible, he realized. But the floor was very hard against his shoes, and he instead found himself floating towards the cell door, curling sweaty fingers around the bars, and pressing his face to them to strain for a sight. But there was merely a dark wall in front of him, and the halls leading left and right were completely black. He was to stay here all night.

Horace Turpin was a brutal judge. It was rare that any of his cases ended positively. If he didn't hang a prisoner, he'd send him off to either an asylum or a foreign locale. But such cannot be solely pinned on the man himself. He was a hanging judge, and hanging judges hanged people (indirectly of coarse). Perhaps however, the severity, and general foreboding surrounding his aura, grew from the fleetness of his verdicts. He came to his conclusions within matters of weeks, and less even, if the crime were sinful enough, at times. His apparitor, Beadle Bamford, spoke oft of Judge Turpin's trials in great detail. At times, his recounts would differ ever so slightly from those of the presiding members of the jury, but the basic gist of the event remained the same. That was what everyone felt most comfortable in assuming. Turpin was a lavish dresser outside of the Old Bailey, though failed to maintain the poise and proper pomp of most other men of his wealth. His lechery was barely a secret. Least most to his beadle. His library was an ill-smelling chamber, with tomes of crudely drawn eroticism lining the walls, wallpaper of nudes, nudes which teetered precariously on the edge of gratuitous.

His pursuit of Lucy Barker started earlier than most knew it. He met the Barkers at chapel; the new couple from across the Thames. They'd arrived with a newborn and rosy faces, and she with a cascade of yellow hair and noble features. Mr. Barker was a stammering whelp with no trace of wit or competence.

Their marriage must surely be of her father's wishes, the judge thought incredulously, sitting to the far right of the couple one Sunday. Perhaps he was wealthy. He did not look wealthy. Perhaps she was so good and fair, that she let him into her bed with charitable intentions alone. Such a martyr. _God, deliver me!_

Mr. Barker was no fool. No one in his right mind could ever pass off those looks the judge gave his wife as anything short of perverted. He often chose to sat between Turpin's direct view of Lucy, sermons growing dull and throbbing in his ears, numbed down with the clenching of his fists. Lucy did not seem to notice, though. Thank God. The last thing he wanted was for her to see something like that. To see someone seeing _her_ like that. She could barely look at her own _husband_ whilst making love, Barker would hate to imagine how something like this would make her feel.

How Johanna had come into the world, Benjamin was never entirely certain. He was no great lover, assuredly, but he was not quite as strait-laced as his wife. Both literally and figuratively, come to think of it. She would refuse to be stripped naked, naturally. always with a nuptial blanket, too. At times, he questioned this, if it was a sign of a lesser love given than received. But she assured him constantly of the opposite. She viewed their love as too pure to be violated by such vulgarity. He complied. He had to. And Johanna had been conceived, hadn't she? That was all that mattered, he supposed. He forced himself to accept. To respect her. For he loved her.

The trial commenced two days later. Mr. Barker was confined to a holding cell for the duration, frazzled and scatter-brained from the isolation. Guards rarely passed by, and lesser still did he see life outside the small slotted window. The station was backed by a dark alley. He found himself gazing out, even so, and trying to discern one brick from the opposing wall from the next. Perhaps if he could count them all, God would let him free. Perhaps if he just waited one more hour, God would let him go.

He was awakened on this day, squinting in the harsh forgiveness of a new sun. He lay on the floor, for there was no such cot or shelf to lie upon, and peered through a web of untidy hair at the officer approaching.

"Up ya get. Off ta th'Old Bailey wif ye." And he yanked Benjamin by the collar and hauled him out, quicker than he could say 'I've done nothing' for the forty-thousandth time.

"Presiding, the Honourable Judge Horace Turpin."

There was no attorney, there was nothing but a judge, a beadle, a jury, and a Barker stationed before them all.

"I cannot begin to express the atrocities found in your records, Mr. Barker." Said the judge, drooping eyes boring damp and uncomfortable holes into the accused.

"If I were to have known of such, then perhaps I could prove a defendant of my own case...your Honour." Said Barker, trying to be loud, but failing, he shook so.

"A man who commits such crimes has worn out all chances of explaining himself. Before both the Court of England and the Lord himself."

"How may I be of service, Madam?"

"Benjamin Barker." Said Mrs. Lovett. "'e's 'ere, ain't he?" It was a statement rather than a question.

The policeman nodded gravely. "Yes, he has been incarcerated until further notice."

"I wanna see 'im."

He stared at her. "S-sorry Madam, 'fraid that's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Judge Turpin requested isolation for Mr. Barker."

"Did 'e? And what exactly 'as Mr. Barker done, then?"

"…sorry?"

"What's 'e done. What's 'is _crime_?"

The policeman hesitated, donning a pair of spectacles and fishing through a stack of logs in front of him. "Barker, Barker…ah. 'Ere it says that Mister Barker's been arrested for certain illicit activities found in his records. Among them tax evasion and…" He paused, squinted at the last word.

Mrs. Lovett folded her arms and believed not a word.

"Ah, and general unlawfulness."

"General unlawfulness." She repeated back stonily, with incredulity lessened by contained anger. She tilting her head subtly, taking a step back to peer round the corner, where she assumed the cells were.

"'s'right, ma'am..." And he returned to the small ledger he'd been studying before her arrival.

She said nothing after that, merely stood scrutinizing the path, blocked only by a solitary policeman at a desk. If he were to look away for only a moment... But that was reckless, and she wouldn't chance it. Instead, she bid him a muttered farewell, and pushed the door open to receive the crisp evening air.

It was nearly half past ten now, she reckoned, and Albert would be wondering. But she did not retake the path home. She backed away from the station slowly, eyeing the policeman through the window in the door.

"Well. I'll be the first to say the law's done its job." Was quietly muttered, half out loud and half in her head, as she backed up further, eyes scanning the building, and becoming seized with an idea. A hope. "…and the last to say it's been done right."

Round the corner, she saw the small barred windows at last, setting her heart in steadfast palpitation. She counted six windows, all at the base and far left corner. They were all unlit, and low to the ground, but she'd crawl in mud just to see him.

And she did crawl, though on cold grass, still damp from this afternoon's rain, trying to allow the moonlight to drift through the bars and illuminate the little rooms, reveal an entity trapped within.

Three cells were empty. The first three. The fourth held a dark shape in the a far corner. She squinted, pushing her nose between the bars, though carefully. That must be him. But something was wrong. The figure was hunched and rocking slowly, and soon a chilling little laugh erupted to sail out the window and hit her between the eyes, chilling her down from the ears down the length of her arms. No, that couldn't be. It wasn't him. There were still two cells left. No one laughed like that…

Biting her lip, feeling a wave of fright encase her at last, as that strange, almost inhuman chuckle prickled through her, like the grass on her palms, she crawled on all fours in a heavy dress to the next window. No one there. One left! The last one. It had to be him. She knew it. Indeed, she settled herself to sit quite comfortably before she even looked inside properly, sitting back on her knees and wrapping her damp fingers around the bars.

But it, too, was empty.

That caused panic, at last. He was here. He was here. He had to be. That bloody useless man at the desk had even said so! Then why wasn't he in a cell? Where could they have put him? Her heart beat hastening to pump terrific energy into each limb, she could not hold back a small sob, quiet enough to be missed, but loud enough to make her convulse a bit, and clutch her chest in defeat. She'd come all the way here, snuck out of the house while Albert was in the bake house, all for nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And then she heard it. A horrible sound. A throat-tearing cough, resounding somewhere to the far right. Good God, what was that? She lost balance in surprise, backside hitting the ground, hand pressed still to her chest, clawing at the fabric of her overcoat. Another one, another cough again. She assumed, at first, it was an unfortunate passing by in the streets beyond, but it was so close, and yet the place of origin was impossible to determine. There was no one there. Slowly she rose, legs shaking slightly, but feeling more level-headed than she'd anticipated, and bent her head slightly to listen. Silence. But she'd known it had come from the right. Could it be…?

Straightening up after a moment of surveying the ground in concentration, she turned full around, and at last caught sight of the building adjacent, walls of grimy brick and…yes! Another little window.

She bent before it, but heard no further noise. Sweating furiously beneath the warm muslin and wool, Mrs. Lovett once more curled fingers over metal, and peered through.

It was him. At last. She'd recognize him anywhere. He sat on the floor with his head between his knees, wearing the same clothes she'd last seen him leave his flat in, though the back was stained with water, his hair mercilessly dishevelled. She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was most likely quite ill. That cough was the demon howl of something one might hear in the inner womb of the slums. Had he contracted it so quickly? Clutching her hand to her chest, she was afraid to be seen. For reasons most unknown. She crouched at the corner of the window, and watched him.


	4. Chapter III

_A/N: After many months, here is chapter three._**

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:CHAPTER III:**

Descending Storm

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Mrs. Barker remained in her flat for no less than three days straight. No daylight or company, save Mrs. Lovett serving her half-hearted meals now and then, or an anxious friend or two come to call.

Lovett would send them away, as Lucy requested. Such grief and woe, the poor angel. She scrubbed pans with great vehemence, letting the warm water envelope calloused hands. Applying this much force to any object tended to help swallow her _own _despair, not to mention caustic thoughts. Thunder rattled the windows, on a night much like the one on which she had last seen him. Broken china and all. See his shadow on the wall perhaps? She bit back a bitter noise, one she could almost rightly taste, before exhaling shakily and wiping her eyes with the shoulder of her frock. Cheeks and nose red and raw. She was unsure of how long she'd been weeping, but it was certainly more than she ought. In her caution, she'd delayed herself after dinner, so as not to enter her bedroom during hours of remaining light. Usually she could catch him asleep then. But there were odd occasions where he'd sit up and wait for her. On those occasions she'd most likely have to make up for her tardiness in one way or another.

Her back began to ache, and she clutched it with soapy hands, resting one half of herself against the wall of the kitchen, letting the touch of breeze splay across her face, cold like human hands come straight from a wintry night. She stared blearily out the window and longed to engrave his shadow in the swaying trees, pinpricks of London's light and rough brick walls.

It was well past midnight before she retired completely, fumbling with bodice laces with shaking digits, fabric rattling in her hands. She'd awakened him with an exemplary sniff, and he advanced upon her without warning nor pretence.

As her face was shoved into the sheets, bloomers tugged down with a cold, sickly shiver, she closed her eyes tightly, but still, as it was every time, failed to imagine she was with someone else. For that someone had gone so quickly she could scarcely recollect if she'd ever touched _him_ before. Though she had.

The mornings rose and fell without event. Lucy emerged once or twice for tea with the McAndrews, but scarcely more than that. Mr. Barker's name was used gently and sensitively, said mostly by Mrs. Lovett herself, though Lucy would refer to him behind her handkerchief now and then, or with a quivering cup and saucer in her hands. Mr. McAndrew did not seem all that ruffled, however. He said things along the lines of "A right shame it is." and "Poor bugger." now and then, but the womenfolk were left for all the mourning. Though he did seem to feel a touch out of place in the absence of a space-filling other male (and we must not count Mr. Lovett, for though he would fill space easier than either men, could not make up for it in conversation capacity or, in general, presence without the instance of a bottle of gin or raw meat swinging from his shoulder.)

The visits from Judge Turpin did not arise until perhaps a week or two after Mr. Barker was taken away. At least, not to Mrs. Lovett's knowledge. She was fairly certain that Lucy had seen him skulking about earlier than that. From the day she was escorted home, she said he'd be seen outside her window at least thrice a week, if not more. Sometimes merely passing by, though when Mrs. Barker said 'passing by' Mrs. Lovett took this to mean 'pacing beneath her window again and again with the intent of appearing to pass by'. For on the third week she'd seen him herself. With a bundle of pies wrapped in cloth under her arm, on a dusky eve, she needed only to put one foot out the door and he would appear in full view. His dress out of date and his sleeves not quite as neatly pressed or clean as one would assume at a distance. She leaned in the doorframe and watched him for a moment. His view was craned in the direction of the Barkers' flat, and his eyes were narrowed in a fashion she was not quite comfortable with, though the exact target of intent was unclear. At first, she assumed he had some personal grudge with all of Barker's family, and felt the need to survey their living quarters for suspicious activity. But such a thing was not what a judge would do himself. He'd get a policeman to do it, wouldn't he? Or that odd thing, his Beadle, would surely knock on the door and ask to search the flat himself. This was all very queer indeed. She let her gaze drop to the ground and crept quietly down the street so as not to be noticed.

On Tuesday the following week, Mrs. Lovett sat with Albert in the parlour, clunking out a familiar English tune on the little harmonium whilst he appeared to be calculating their finances, for once sober and relatively level-tempered. They'd heard next to nothing from upstairs all day. Lucy would usually come down to share a meal with them these days, after Mrs. Lovett insisted on her ending her isolation, for at least an hour or two. The crackle of the fire was lulling, and Mrs. Lovett paused Sweet Polly Plunkett to listen in silence. The occasional fumble from Albert's thick fingers, handling notes. The scratch of ink. He was rather good at finances. Something useful.

Abruptly there was a knock at the door. It jarred Mrs. Lovett quite right out of her reverie, which had begun to slip into recollection, dangerous territory, especially when not confined to solitude. She stood, stiffly, skirts making an uncomfortable shift in her abruptness, and went to the door.

The Beadle stood with an ivory note in his hand. "Excuse me, Madam, but you wouldn't happen to know if a certain Missus Barker were in, would you?" The slinking inflections of his tone, the smile which ne'er chanced to alight his eye with the same intentions. She wished to snap his head clean off with a mouse trap.

"She's upstairs. Would you like me to get her?"

"Oh no, no, no need at all. Just be sure that she gets this, won't you?" He extended the envelope to her, and she took it, dubiously. "It's an invitation to the Honourable Judge Turpin's masked ball next week. He's celebrating his one two-thousandth trial, and would like it very much if poor, sweet Mrs. Barker could attend and perhaps rekindle her once lively, feminine sensibilities?"

Mrs. Lovett flipped the envelope over, observing the yellow seal. "I'll tell her. Goodbye." And without another word the door was closed.

"Mrs. Barker?" She knocked, three times. No answer. "Lucy? Dearest, there's a letter for you." She knocked again, and opened the door upon hearing yet again no answer.

Lucy was rocking Johanna in her bassinet, tears streaming down both of their faces.

Nellie tried her very best not to crumple the note in her hand.

"Lucy, this was sent from Judge Turpin." The room was already beginning to gather dust. She noted the untouched plate, the dishevelled yellow hair pinned hastily back. Lucy turned her head slowly, red faced, like a tomato, and took the letter.

"Judge.." A sniff, "Turpin?"

"Yes, his Beadle was here just a moment ago asking for you."

She paused to read it, and Nellie crossed to the opposing side of Johanna's crib and brushed her forehead gently. She could not rightly coo over the little thing, for she so resembled her mother. But there were traces of Benjamin, she supposed. Most notable in the structure of the eyes, the careful curve of the mouth.

"Oh my...a masked ball?" Lucy looked to Lovett, as if it had been she who'd planned the thing.

"That's what it says?" She attempted to appear as uninterested as was comfortable without the possibility of alarm.

"Yes. Upon the celebration of his two-thousandth trial."

"How long do you suppose he's been a judge?" Mrs. Lovett raised her head ponderously, gently taking up the rocking which Lucy had ceased, speaking offhandedly to the corner.

"Oh my, do you think it wise that I go?" She looked rather stricken. "It would be nice to get out and about..."

Lovett turned her attention on her, longer than she usually tended to bear. She could see not a whit of forethought or deep understanding in those eyes of Lucy's. There were no cavernous halls to creep into like her husband's. "I'm...not so sure about that, dearie." And she meant it. "Judge Turpin's been about the streets day in and day out. He looks up at your window. I've seen 'im."

She struggled a little. "I...I know...I...You're right, of coarse." She rose suddenly, placing the invitation on the side table, crossing the room to look out the window.

Mrs. Lovett followed, though not with any sort of haste.

"I mean, he _is_ the one who sentenced your husband, right?" Hands on her hips.

"Yes..." She twirled a lock of her hair. "Oh Benjamin...dear, sweet Benjamin..."

Mrs. Lovett sniffed, without gagging. That was a step forward concerning her tolerance. "You can get out anytime, you know, Lucy. Me n' Ethel are always here to take you out to town. We still play croquet now and then you know. Could use another game mate."

"Oh..." And she seemed genuinely flustered. As if this offer was something that greatly confused. "I...think I shall take Johanna downstairs. It's a bit chilly up here." And she went, scooping up the baby, who cooed appropriately, and left Lovett in the room alone.

The week of the ball was nothing of a Cinderella preparation. Lucy took no great lengths to preen or refine herself. At most she wore a dress she hadn't worn in a few weeks, and pinned her hair back according to what was at least partially acceptable for a woman her age. Mrs. Lovett observed her silently the evening of the party, folding her arms. A bit of jealousy, of coarse. Not being invited to something when Lucy had been. Mainly for the sake of having something she did not, _again_, rather than true desire to attend the event. She'd no sooner set foot in Turpin's hall than she would willingly waltz with her own husband. To do that usually involved threats.

"Oh...dear. You will mind Johanna, won't you, Nellie?" Lucy stood at the door, where the Beadle had, unexpectedly, arrived to escort her.

"Yes dear, of coarse. Now go and try to forget about all these worries, you hear?" She jiggled the baby in her arms, and grasped her tiny, fat wrist to wave her hand in saying goodbye. The Beadle promptly pulled Lucy across the threshold and into the dark street. Lucy glanced over her shoulder, with a less than enthused countenance that even Lovett herself could not help but feel a drop in temperature in the wake of.

Mrs. Lovett tucked Johanna in bed not long after she'd left, and had fallen asleep on the chaise reading her book. Albert had had the courtesy not to awaken her, which was a rare thing indeed. Though, he may have only fallen asleep before hand, and hadn't noticed at all, which was the more likely answer. She awoke, gently, to the erratic sound of a sob. Uncontrolled and relentless, though hidden behind a muffling palm. She heard the chinking of glass, the shuffling of skirts stumbling up the stairs. She did not stand right away. Perhaps the poor, sweet Mrs. Barker had had too much to drink. She'd retch upstairs. Weak stomach. Poor dear. But when no retching sounds were heard, not to mention the off-putting cries of Johanna, with frightened whimpering to follow from Lucy herself, she resigned under the notion that it would do no good to try and fall back to sleep again, and the alternative, going to sleep in her marriage bed, wasn't quite preferable either. So she picked up her skirts and ascended the staircase, quiet as possible, minding the creak on the second-top-most stair, and found her way into the Barker's flat.

Lucy's hair was fallen and slightly damp with sweat. Her elbows were bent, back turned to her, and she held a small black bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Her whimpers had died down somewhat by this time, but she did not move to turn around upon hearing the door creak open.

"...Lucy?" Lovett called out in a shrill whisper, then escalated once Johanna reassumed her wailing. "Lucy! Love, what's wrong, wha...What are you doing?" That bottle...what did the label say?

"N-N-Nellie...!" She nearly dropped the glass, which held water in it. "Lucy, put...put that down love, and tell me what happened. Were the guests unkind to you? Was the judge..."

"Yes!" She cut in jerkily, not setting down her bottle and glass. "Th-The Judge!"

"Give me those." She took them from her, and set them on a shelf, and pushed Lucy gently to sit on her bed. "Calm down, love. Tell me what happened." And she picked up the baby as an afterthought.

"H-h-he..." She looked like a right palsied patient. "He what?"

"Th-they all...they all just...they watched it..."

"Mrs. Barker! Right this way, right this way..." The Beadle Bamford and his leather gloves, which were clammy beneath her skin. He pulled her down courts and across streets, narrowly missing a passing buggy now and then, which nearly led Lucy to swoon from the exertion, not to mention the trauma. They reached Turpin's house, a great, uninviting thing, with windows lit only on the bottom floor, glowing like a troop feral creatures in the night. Egregiously cut stone gargoyles decorated the wall, and Lucy remembered then that she did not have a mask. When she informed the Beadle of this, he merely waved her off and assured her that it was no trifle. No trifle at all, Madam. Upon entering, she was nearly asphyxiated with such noxious fumes. Which were the combination of burning incense, pomade drenching every head, and unknown smoke erupting from hookah pipes in a tightly knit corner, which Lucy had no hope of identifying as the cause.

A glass of champagne was thrust immediately into her hand. She was launched into the dancing throng, filled with pigs and tigers and rats in men and women's clothing. A few young men engaged her to dance, but she declined each time, asking for the Judge instead, to which they responded in kind by saying an approximation of 'Nobody's seen him yet, nobody knows which mask is his.' They all had a bit of a drunken sway to them, even the old couples appeared to be red-nosed and heartily intoxicated.

Judge Turpin watched her from across a great distance, pinpointing her immediately, for the delicate flower that she was. The softness of her skin in appearance from so long a ways a way. He dusted his jacket automatically, keeping his mask securely held in front of his face. Sweating already behind it. Ordinarily he was not so accustomed to pursuing a beautiful woman so very directly in a public setting. Which was why he'd thrown the party himself, rather than chanced to meet her at a community ball or something seasonal. He did not outright condone the opium, but he did not comment on its presence, either.

He did not, himself, require copious stimulants in order to be in the perfect state of mind for such an affair.

Lucy, Lucy. She'd sooner break in shards like a china figure than use her intuitive skills to detect when predators were near. Her head was filled with such smells, and her drink tasted not quite the way she recalled that champagne tasted. At length, she began to feel quite ill indeed. Seeking refuge on a circular love seat, sprawling across it, feeling the skin and cased organs tightly reigned beneath whalebone and pink cotton to be more strenuous than usual. Her vision clouded. The twinkling lights of the chandeliers and the sequins and feathers and buckled shoes blurred to spin round and round like a show of stars beneath torrent waves. It was at this moment that she was descended upon. He swooped like a bat and engulfed her with merely a short intake of breath. Hands roving her sides, her hips, bunching the skirt and bustle to lift it violently. Tugging on garter and pantalettes with ravenous haste. Not dexterous, nearly ripping, most assuredly denting the skin, red marks and a muffled scream from behind the hand which he then thrust over her mouth.

A crowd gathered, and began to cackle in hesitance at first. They were no strangers to such displays. All of them noble and with good names, but rarely a one with a clean slate or a virginal constitution. The animals grew horrid, twisted smiles. Pulled back and nailed into place. Clutching portly stomachs to guffaw and guffaw. Lucy dropped her glass. It smashed to the floor and sent shards every which way, one slicing into the shoe of the nearest observer, who did not take notice until the whole affair was over. The Beadle lowered his mask, which held not much of a difference in juxtaposition to his real face, and struggled to make out every detail. To watch the top of her yellow head, writhing. She gave the harshest cry yet; the sealant on the deal. The Judge took his prize.


	5. Chapter IV

_A/N: This one took so very long because I had to at least do a little bit of research. It's short, and probably still not accurate, but suspension of disbelief must prevail! Also, thanks so much to my reviewers thus far. You're really helping me keep going with this little project. 3_

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**:CHAPTER IV:**  
Enter Todd

* * *

The angle of the shadows served as an adequate sundial. It was nearing night. How many times it had circled from dark to light now was lost to him at this point. Barker was in the leftmost corner, shackles limply resting on his knees, feeling the sweat and heat from other bodies churn in the air until one could nearly see it. The colour of burnt bread and pinked flesh.

The carriage lurched, particular in its intensity, which was indicative of an important stop. The prisoners grumbled, those that could speak anyway, and some were knocked to the ground from having stood with some effort to clutch the window bars, trying to glean a hint of their whereabouts. Barker covered his head.

The warden came round and unlocked the door, pouring thin light onto the broiling occupants.

"'ere's the boat." He said, presumably to the air, and with a few other strong arms the prisoners were wrenched from their places to walk in single file, having no chance to stray, the chains connected them all. Rusting metal determinate of each fate. It was comforting perhaps, to know that not one was worse off than the other.

Mr. Barker surmised that they were out of London now. Why they could not use the port there was a mystery. He would have asked were he in better spirits. Would he ever be in better spirits?

The boat. It was smaller than seemed necessary. There were a good twenty men here, the boat looked as if it could house no more than eight. Below deck was wet and malodorous. The chains were linked to brackets in the curved wooden walls, and they were left with a locked door above, ladder being raised to make all escape efforts futile. Unless of coarse there was favour in kicking the crack in the floor until they all drowned.

On sea they made three stops. Various other European locations, Barker surmised. Perhaps Spain and Ireland. There were more men with darker faces, and men with lighter faces, some as young as twelve, some as old as fifty. All with the same standard issue shackled chains. Every one's hair reached the same state of dryness, the same amount of unkempt ruffles. They weren't near dirt quite yet.

The last stop was after a week. Each man was fed minimally, and without the removal of his chains. They did not speak, for there was little to say to one another which could be interpreted to reach all ears. As it had been in the carriage, Barker soon yearned for the camp itself, anything but these nautical smells. Anything but the slippery boat wall.

The rocking lead to a bit of seasickness, or a general sickness having to do with too-stale bread, or perhaps indigestion, or even so commonplace a symptom as despair. The sick wasn't seen too. The privy consisted of two pitchers.

When the boat reached New South Wales, it was after the next week. Already they began to appear unshaven and harder and harder to distinguish from one another. Barker took to blend in with his fellow Englishmen. All that was left were the variations in dress. Some richer than others, but most of a poor sector not fit for clean cotton or polished buckles.

The boat docked at Botany Bay. The ladder unfolded to hit the ground as the sunlight burst through the door, illuminating in a square beam. The prisoners pulled at their chains as impatient dogs. Deck hands came to unlock them, and the slow climb, all attached, up the rope ladder and toward the dock was a relieving event in and of itself.

Another carriage awaited. The prisoners were separated by place of initial incarceration. Carted into large black buggies without windows this time. The only light slipped through a tiny crack beneath the door. Most, including Barker, slept through this journey.

He was jerked awake much the same as he had been upon reaching the ship. His skull hit the wall with a loud thump, and he was nearly dragged off his feet by the wrists. Into the light again.

The prison itself was a rather primitive-looking fortress. Taking no care to look attractive on the outside, just hulking masses of wood and metal, no inkling of aesthetic. Two gigantic gates were pulled open by guards, faces shadowed by the brims of their hats. The horses pulled into a derelict courtyard. Efficient stables and fences. The prisoners were hauled out yet again, getting used to their chains, the muscles in their wrists no longer notably aching from the strain, and directed to a gentleman with a stack of cards.

The prison practices were not particularly well known to Barker himself, but he had a feeling that in addition to the rudimentary architecture, the proceedings and protocol of the colony were equally primitive. His chains were unlocked, arms now free to hang with naked shackles still firmly locked in place, and he was given a number, 205. Numbers 200 to 210 were to be grouped in the same hall. Two to each cell.

They were searched thoroughly. All personal items stacked in hands and taken away. He watched a five pound note, a match box, and his pipe disappear. Neck stocks, gloves, rings, tobacco, and spectacles piled into sacks. He heard the chink of glass being crushed. Next was the Bath.

They were slated to build. To dig roads, build houses, hammer fences, roll cobbles. To begin a new world. But the question remained; what sort of a world would come to fruition begun on the backs of criminals? Murderers, thieves, rapists, adulterers, sodomites. This was the current thought of Barker's, as he was stripped naked in the crowded hall, then lead to a cement cubicle, a lead tub, and doused with water of an indiscernible colour. They were told that this would cleanse them of their former existence. You are not a man any longer, but a number. A tool for production, and nothing else. As for your soul, who is there to know its state now but God? Whether it be blackened to a crisp and blown clean away in the desert wind, or slowly left to trickle out of an open wound, as any good bloodletting, straight to Hell without your body to go with it.

Five cells, two to each, all English or Irish. All men (or boys) suited anew in sack cloth uniforms, which seemed to have more than likely been used previously. The man sharing Barker's cell was Charles Todd. Though average in physique and complexion, with a small, drawn mouth and pale eyes, he held a formidable air about him which forced Barker to avoid eye-contact. It was unclear of what each man in their hall was sentenced for. Was he grouped with other committers of 'foolishness'? He hoped to God it was so.

Once left alone, cell doors slid closed and locked, Charles Todd, with his number of 206, which was branded on the back of his uniform, spat in the general direction of the guards, and proceeded to investigate what supplies he'd been given for personal toilette. Barker copied hesitantly, without the spitting, skin chilled and veins harshly iced.

No razors, he'd hoped for them most of all. Nothing but a thinning mantle of bed sheet, shoes, a small ration of soap, and gloves, which looked to be suited for ironwork. There were two cots, one on either side of the cell, and he claimed the left, sitting on the edge of it, as if he were afraid to, and piling his new possessions neatly at its side.

Charles Todd did not speak, but he chose to scrutinize his cellmate, as one might scrutinize fresh veal for the purchasing. Benjamin Barker. Pale, rather slight, rather unimpressive, he thought. Looking more suitable for sewing buttons on dresses than carrying bricks on his back. Easy to break. A man one must look after.

It was nearing night. Barker had tried to count the days, but had failed, due to sharply uneven bouts of dreamless sleep throughout the boat ride, and odd changes in weather and the shade of the day. It was unclear what lay in store next for the prisoners, but the hall was quiet, many, if not all perhaps, too shocked to speak.

He'd seen the prisoners of Newgate now and again. They'd all been shaved of hair, cut unevenly with scissors until the scalp shone through. He ran fingers through his own hair, perhaps the only article of vanity he now possessed, and hoped that he wouldn't lose it.

Now wedged in a corner, scant light of the rising moon outlining things in white, he felt as if he could collapse into himself. Charles Todd lay on his cot, and appeared to be sleeping. Barker noticed that he did not seem quite as perturbed as the others. Perhaps he'd been in Newgate once.

He could not sleep willingly. If sleep came, it would need to ambush. No dream would catch him. Of all the days currently having been spent, not once could he remember having dreamed. Nor, for that matter, having been asleep at all. He assumed it had come, for there were skips in time that seemed illogical at best. It was unclear whether dreamless sleep was more merciful. For if he were to dream, it would most assuredly be of Lucy. Johanna. London. Trademarks that made him a man. That made him identifiable.

He thought pointedly of the trial. He attempted to remember each face which had been present. But all for naught. Each became nothing but a hazy spectre in a powdered wig, cowled in the blackness of the rest of his memory. The ghosts, who had no faces, seemed to near him, descending upon him, like vultures to carrion. The blackness sprang twofold.

When he awoke, the light from the tiny window sat on the edge of his cot, rather like a square angel. Blearily, he folded over to place his hand in it, bathed in light, which was not golden as it should be, but reddish, as if the sun was stippled by something. Dust, cloud, trees, blood. The peppering of nothing else left to hope for.


End file.
